


Tactile

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: In Which Geralt Can't Take a Hint, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, The Other Witchers Like Teasing Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22985128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: When Geralt brings Jaskier to Kaer Morhen, the other Witchers take a shine to the bard.Too much of a shine, if you ask Geralt. Not that anyone's asked. Or that Geralt really cares. Much. Or at all. Really, he doesn't. Nope.Not in the slightest.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 248
Kudos: 4225
Collections: Just.... So cute..., Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	Tactile

**Author's Note:**

> This was, once again, taking from a prompt on the kinkmeme: "Geralt has developed this habit of growling whenever anyone touches Jaskier, whether Jaskier seems to want to be touched or not. Geralt is confused and frustrated on why he keeps reacting like that until it dawns on him that he really wants to fuck his bard.
> 
> +Jaskier was really ramping up his tactile nature hoping to make Geralt finally make a move."

Growing up, Geralt didn’t have much.

As a Witcher, he had even less.

There was his sword, and Renfri’s broach attached to the hilt. A constant reminder. _The girl in the woods will always be with you._ Whether Renfri had meant Ciri, her touch of magic granting her that arcane knowledge, or whether she’d meant herself… Geralt didn’t know. But both girls stayed with him. One as his daughter, and one as his ghost.

There was also Roach, although Roach didn’t stay forever. Horses only lived about twenty years. Roach came and went. He’d gotten used to saying goodbye to her, and then finding a new her again, but getting used to something didn’t mean that it was easy.

His armor had to be replaced. People died, but even before that, they moved on. Whores were only bought for the night. Flowers faded and withered. He roamed the world, so he couldn’t carry much, and there wasn’t much he’d even want to carry. Nothing was permanent.

And then a stupid ridiculous _child_ of a bard had walked over to him with a swagger he didn’t deserve and asked for a review on his singing, and suddenly, Geralt had something permanent.

If most people had asked him about it, he would’ve said permanent like a splinter that wormed its way far enough into the skin that you couldn’t pull it out, you had to just wait for your skin to grow up around it and callus, letting it become a part of you.

But to just himself… Jaskier was permanent the way the seasons were permanent. There for a time, gone for a time, but always coming back. Unending and yet changing. The kind you didn’t appreciate while they were there, and then missed while they were gone, and then you finally learned to bask in. Not so much an object but a rhythm.

Given that Jaskier was a bard, it seemed to suit.

Jaskier was the first person who stayed, and who wanted to stay, and who seemed actually happy to be with Geralt. And Geralt—Geralt would’ve died before admitting it aloud because Jaskier wasn’t _his,_ Jaskier wasn’t an _object,_ but he was still—he was the one person that was all for Geralt. The one thing that was, in a very not-ownership-kind-of-way, his.

Telling Jaskier this was, of course, completely out of the question. Jaskier loved freely, he loved everyone, and Geralt wasn’t going to stifle him. He certainly wasn’t going to make the massive mistake of assuming that Jaskier would choose him alone out of all the beautiful, talented, rich, non-cursed people that he could have. He had Jaskier’s deep and abiding friendship, and surely that would be more than enough to content himself with.

And then he decided to take Jaskier to Kaer Morhen.

In hindsight, he should’ve realized that Jaskier would be a hit with the other Witchers. Jaskier had been the one to change people’s opinions of Witchers, the one that got the White Wolf celebrated and the Butcher of Blaviken almost forgotten. It was his songs that made Geralt of Rivia, and by extension Witchers in general, heroes. Not that things were entirely easy now. People were set in their ways. But it was still a damn sight better than it had been.

The moment Geralt walked into the crumbling great hall and told Vesemir who Jaskier was, Lambert had basically jumped the bard to hoist him up and show him off to the other Witchers. Eskel had teased Jaskier about writing a song about the other Witchers, not just his favorite, and Vesemir had solemnly clapped Jaskier on the shoulder and thanked him for his work (this last thing was the one that seemed to completely throw Jaskier and left him stumbling over his words as he tried to convey that it was really no problem, ah, when one meets such a fantastic muse one really must take advantage, ha ha…).

Geralt growled. “Put him down, Lambert.”

Lambert did so, chuckling. “Oh calm down, Geralt, I’m not going to hurt him.”

Geralt just grabbed Jaskier by the back of his lute strap and yanked him into Geralt’s side. “I’m going to show him his room, if you all are finished pawing over him.”

Eskel and Lambert exchanged a look, their eyebrows rising, and Geralt knew, he just _knew,_ that he’d somehow stepped in it.

“Whatever you say,” Eskel said, an odd tone in his voice, and Geralt hustled Jaskier off to show him where he’d be staying (in the room next to Geralt’s, of course, because where else would he be).

But they didn’t _stop._

Every time Jaskier was around the other Witchers, they were clapping him on the shoulder, wrapping their arms around his back to lead him somewhere, leaning in to say something quietly, and Geralt was—he was going to snap his fork in half at the dinner table one day if this kept up, honestly.

At first he didn't know why he was so upset about it. Because if he thought about why, that would mean thinking about a lot of other things, things he was very firmly not letting himself think about especially after the disaster that had been his attempt at a relationship with Yennefer and he was most definitely not…

"Your bard's rather pretty, isn't he?" Lambert noted at one point. "Eyes like… what's that plant… cornflowers."

Fucking _Lambert_ was talking about Jaskier being pretty!? As if he really appreciated what made Jaskier attractive, as if he really knew about how Jaskier's voice sounded when it was low and rough and he was singing quietly to himself around the campfire after a long day, as if he really knew how Jaskier's chest was surprisingly hairy and masculine, as if he knew about how Jaskier's mouth got cherry red after drinking wine, as if he knew about how Jaskier's legs were actually quite strong after all the walking and running he was doing, and his fingers as well with all the lute playing, no feeling in his fingertips from the strength of his calluses, as if Lambert of all fucking people knew how Jaskier wasn't just _pretty,_ he was…

…fuck, he was thinking about it.

Shit.

“I had no idea that your brethren were so friendly,” Jaskier said, plopping down next to him one evening as Geralt was tending to some bruises he’d gotten while training earlier. Despite supposedly having his own room, Jaskier was constantly in Geralt’s—something about it being too quiet in his own room and wanting someone to talk to.

Not that Geralt minded.

“Honestly, Geralt, from how taciturn you are I rather got the impression that I’d spend the next three or so months surrounded by people who only spoke in grunts and monosyllables.” Jaskier swiped the salve from Geralt and began rubbing at Geralt’s bruises himself. “And the stories they’re telling me—I have so many ideas I don’t even know what to do with them—Geralt, are you growling?”

Geralt froze.

“…no?”

Jaskier fixed him with a look. “You’re a terrible liar. You were growling!”

“Was not,” Geralt replied, knowing he sounded peevish.

Jaskier jabbed at one of his bruises and Geralt glared at him. “You’re just upset I’m making friends.”

“No. I’m… I’m not anything.”

Jaskier set aside the salve. “Geralt. You know that you’re my favorite.”

“I… know.” He was Jaskier’s favorite muse, yes, he was aware. He just also wanted to be… other things. And how long would it be until Eskel or Lambert or some other Witcher, with all of Geralt’s strength and skill but with actual charm and people skills, stole Jaskier’s heart away and Geralt would be forced to watch Jaskier be with someone who was so like him, and yet not him at all?

“Mmm, do you though?” Jaskier asked. He tapped Geralt’s chin. “I’m not at all sure that you do.”

Geralt seized Jaskier’s hand, and he meant to swipe it away so that Jaskier would stop poking at him, but he only managed to tangle their fingers and then somehow he just didn’t… let go.

Well, all those other Witchers were touching the bard constantly. Why couldn’t Geralt?

Jaskier’s eyes warmed, and a small smile curled up the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry, Geralt. Come spring, you’re the one I’ll be traveling with.”

That wasn’t what Geralt was afraid of. He was afraid that at some point during these three or four long months of winter, Jaskier would end up moving out of his room and into the room of another Witcher and spending his nights with them instead of sitting on Geralt’s bed and pestering Geralt over whether the rhyme in his latest song was too simple or if the word “fast” should be replaced with “quick.”

And every day, it was getting more… _annoying._

“You sure are growling a lot,” Ciri noted at breakfast one morning when Jaskier said something that made Eskel drape his arms around the bard’s shoulders.

Geralt pointed his fork at her. “Eat your food.”

Ciri huffed at him. “Not _my_ fault that you’re jealous.”

Jealous? “I’m not… jealousy means that you’re scared of someone taking what’s yours.” Jaskier wasn’t his.

“I know what it means,” Ciri replied cryptically, and went back to eating her porridge.

And now—now it was worse, because Jaskier had started touching the other Witchers back.

He would lightly pat their arms or shoulders as he walked by, which, fuck, that had been his thing with Geralt, he’d do that so casually and it had always made something warm curl up in Geralt’s chest like a contented animal. And now it was just… and Jaskier would grab onto them when he was getting excited, the way he used to grab onto Geralt, and it was just—damn it, would it kill the bard to not be quite so friendly for once? Especially not friendly in the exact same way he was friendly with Geralt?

Was Geralt really so replaceable to Jaskier?

“Have you noticed,” Eskel said at one point while they were sparring, “that you growl every time one of us touches your bard?”

“He’s not _my_ bard.” Geralt smacked Eskel with the flat of his sword probably a little harder than necessary.

“Could’ve fooled me, with all the growling.” Eskel dodged the next blow and pivoted neatly on his heel. “But if you really don’t mind, do you happen to know which way he swings? You know, with his sword, if you catch my meaning?”

Later, Vesemir said that Geralt throwing his sword to the ground and leaping on top of Eskel to pummel him was, quote, “Behavior not befitting a Witcher,” and that Geralt had to, “Sort out his personal shit in a mature fashion.”

What did Vesemir know, anyway.

Jaskier found him sharpening his sword (he was not brooding, no matter what Lambert said about it) by the fire later that evening. “Eskel’s sporting some rather big bruises on his face. He said you gave them to him.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier plopped himself down on the chair opposite Geralt. “He said that you did it after he suggested he would try and ask me out.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier tilted his head at him. “Geralt, is there any particular reason you’re so… twisted up and bent out of shape about my being friendly with the other Witchers? I would’ve thought you’d be happy. I mean, they’re your family, after all. Or the closest thing to it. Unless, of course you don’t… want me to know your family, but if you didn’t want that I don’t know why you would’ve brought me here, and…”

The bard trailed off, and Geralt kept sharpening his sword. What was he supposed to say? _I’ve come to the unfortunate conclusion that I don’t like the other Witchers touching you because only I’m supposed to be allowed to touch you that way because I want to fuck you?_

Ludicrous.

Jaskier was, surprisingly, silent for a long moment. Or perhaps not so surprisingly. The bard could be rather quiet, when he truly wanted to be. When he saw it was appropriate. Like up on the mountain, after Geralt had thought he’d lost Borsch.

_We could go down to the coast._

_Just trying to work out what pleases me._

If he had said yes, then, if he had gone down to the coast with Jaskier, would Jaskier still be like this with the other Witchers? Would he still—or would Geralt have a chance? A proper chance? Or—

Jaskier’s hand closed over his, stopping him from continuing his work. “Geralt. Do you have any idea how unhappy you look right now?”

Geralt looked up at him, saw Jaskier’s eyes dark with concern. He had no idea what to say to that.

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth upticked in a small, almost smile. “I thought, once I started touching them back, that you would… I don’t know. That you would _do_ something about it. But you still haven’t, and now I fear that I… that I’ve played a game where you didn’t even know the rules, and that was cruel of me. I mean, I didn’t start the game, but I joined in, and that wasn’t—is it that you don’t know? Or that you don’t think you can?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” Geralt admitted slowly.

Jaskier wrapped his hand around the pommel of Geralt’s sword, and tugged. Geralt released it, letting Jaskier gently set it down on the ground. Despite his lean frame, Jaskier could in fact wield the sword, if he had to. Not well, exactly, but he was stronger than he let on. That accomplished, Jaskier promptly crawled into Geralt’s lap, his hands framing Geralt’s face.

“What the fuck,” Geralt said, which he felt eloquently encapsulated the situation.

“The only person I want touching me all the time is you,” Jaskier informed him. “And the only person I want to touch all the time, is you. Eskel and Lambert were having a laugh because they noticed you growl and get angry like a wet cat whenever they touch me, and I thought, maybe if I got friendly with them back, you would realize—how you felt, and what we could be, and you’d do something about it. But you haven’t, you’ve just been getting crankier and more miserable.

“So, here we are, and here I am, and I’m really hoping you’ll stop staring at me like a pole-axed cow any moment now and will actually touch me back because I’m feeling rather like I stepped in it and I’d like to have not ruined our friendship because I read this all wrong—”

Geralt wasn’t good with his words, but he was good at actions, and the best, simplest action at this point seemed to be to kiss Jaskier.

So he did.

Jaskier made a startled noise against his mouth, and then practically melted. Geralt had to quickly wrap his arms around the bard to keep Jaskier from sliding off his damn lap. The bard kissed with as much enthusiasm as Geralt had always suspected, but with more softness than he’d expected. Geralt sucked on Jaskier’s bottom lip and Jaskier whined, pressing himself closer, moving his hands back and up to tangle them in Geralt’s hair. When they finally parted, panting, Jaskier immediately bumped their noses together, his mouth ghosting across Geralt’s cheekbone.

“That’s more like it,” Jaskier whispered, settling himself more firmly in Geralt’s lap, letting Geralt’s legs take his weight. He nipped at Geralt’s lip and Geralt pressed in, kissing Jaskier properly again, hardly believing that he could actually do this, that Jaskier wanted him. “That’s my wolf.”

Geralt realized he was purring and would’ve glared at himself if he could’ve managed such a thing.

“Well thank fuck,” Eskel said, and Geralt jumped in surprise, his hold on Jaskier tightening instinctively as he glared at Eskel over Jaskier’s shoulder, growling.

Eskel just laughed. “Lambert owes me money now.”

“It was rather cruel of you,” Jaskier pointed out, running his fingers through Geralt’s hair, and how the bard automatically knew that would soothe Geralt, he didn’t know, but nor did he care so long as Jaskier kept doing it.

Eskel pointed at one of the bruises on his face. “I think I paid a fair price.” He grinned wolfishly and then spun on his heel, whistling.

Jaskier turned back to Geralt, twining a lock of white hair around his finger. “So. I was thinking. There’s really no need for us to have two separate rooms and two separate beds, is there?”

Geralt pretended to think about it for a moment, just to watch confusion start to cloud Jaskier’s eyes, and then he nuzzled into Jaskier’s throat, just underneath the bard’s chin. He could touch, _only_ he could touch, Jaskier was his and he was Jaskier’s and it felt like the world was right side up again. “No. There’s no need at all.”

“Good,” Jaskier said, sounding rather pleased with himself. Geralt brushed his lips against Jaskier’s pulse point and Jaskier gave a little sigh. “My wolf,” he said, quieter this time, perhaps quiet enough he thought that Geralt wouldn’t hear it.

Geralt purred. Yes. Jaskier’s wolf. And Geralt's bard. Something he could keep, something that changed with him, like the rhythm of the seasons. Something—someone—who would never leave.


End file.
